Last year, in Worlds of Tomorrow, Frederik Pohl published an article by K. C. W. Ettinger, which began flatly: “Most of us now living have a chance for personal physical immortality,” and went on to argue the immediate feasibility of deep-freezing, at the instant of death, for re-vivification and treatment as soon as medical arts make it possible.
To me, the idea is no less staggering than, and in its way not too different from, the complete-opposite concept of Doomsday destruction. Everything in our psychology stems, I am convinced, from the essential drive of mortal man to survive the disintegration of his body: in the spirit (religion); in name (fame and power); in artifacts and products (art, science, the bulk of “civilization”); in a continuation of the flesh (children, family, clan, nation).
I was impressed by the exposition of this philosophy in “The Faces Outside.” I was more impressed when I found out it was the author’s first published story; and more again when he wrote me about himself.
The first part is a deceptively typical writer’s history: Has lived in Florida, Virginia, Italy. Now in California. Interested in “international relations, languages, all sciences, art, and writing.” Participated in recent sleep-deprivation experiments. Currently doing a study of “symbolism from the writer’s point of view, rather than the critic’s.” (Among seventy-odd authors: Aldiss, Budrys, Ellison, Golding, Heinlein, Leiber, McCarthy, Merril, Sturgeon.) One summer in Italy spent studying art at the Belle Arti Institute in Florence. Now supports himself in part, at Claremont Men’s College, by “doing ‘crazy’ drawings and paintings that scare enough people into buying.”
It is his first year at college. He is now seventeen. (The story was written two years ago.)
I do not know .whether Mr. McAllister has decided, yet, to want to live forever. But I think I do know in Dr. Biggie’s case. (No. Not medicine. Musicology.)
A SLIGHT CASE OF LIMBO
Lloyd Biggie, Jr.
The wind’s shrill moaning sank suddenly to a muted whisper, and above the clatter of rain on the corrugated roof George Cramer thought he heard a scream. He opened the door and peered doubtfully into the rain-lashed night. At his feet the swollen river swished and gurgled around the pilings. The rowboat, swinging with the current, struck the side of the dock with loud, irregular thuds. Cramer aimed a flashlight at the distant shore, but the blackness casually swallowed up the beam. He could see nothing.
Suddenly the cry came again, a long, sobbing scream that hung convulsively over the river until a fresh surge of wind twisted it into silence. Cramer did not hesitate. He grabbed his oars and leaped into the boat, and seconds later he was headed out into the current, rowing frantically.
He shouted over his shoulder, but if there was an answering cry the wind wrenched it away from him. The chill, driving rain instantly drenched his head and clothing and left him shudderingly cold even as he panted and perspired at the oars. His erratic old heart filled his chest with its relentless pounding; his swollen arthritic hands brought gasps of pain to his clenched lips as he worked the oars. He shouted again as he turned the boat into the rampaging current, and paused to flash his light. An answering call came from far down the river. Cramer bent his exhausted body to the oars, and sent the boat rocking forward.
Long before he neared that struggling, helplessly bobbing figure in the water Cramer knew that he was dying, and that knowledge brought a half-smile to his taut face. It would be a good trade, he thought—his own feebleness and disease, his aged, worn-out life, for a young, healthy life with direction, and purpose and meaning. Instead of a wretched end in the sordid loneliness of his cramped cabin, this unexpected twitch of destiny offered an embattled death that he could welcome and embrace fully. His sobs of pain were fervent hosannas as he drove the boat forward, punishing himself, struggling to focus his last flickers of life into one memorable conflagration.
And he reached his objective. A hand clutched the side of the boat. Cramer turned to assist, and at that instant his heart exploded.
He opened his eyes to the bare rafters of his cabin. An elongated patch of sunlight lay against the far wall. Beyond his window birds sang, and a light breeze caressed the trees overhead. He tried to move his arms, to sit up.
A voice came from far off, deep, softly soothing, pleasingly musical. “Easy! Easy! You need rest. Sleep . ... sleep . . . sleep.”
Cramer slept.
When he awoke a man was bending over him. Cramer watched the round, placid face for a moment before he became aware of the dexterous fingers that applied a bandage to his chest.
“You’re a doctor?” Cramer whispered.
“No,” the voice sang. “No. I am not a doctor.”
“A nurse, then.” The idea seemed incongruous with this monstrous hulk of a man, but the fingers were infinitely gentle. “I was dying,” Cramer said. “I died, and you . . . was it you—”
“Quiet!” the voice sang. “It was you, friend Cramer, who saved my life. And you need sleep ... sleep ...”
The next time Cramer awoke he was alone. He edged himself cautiously into a sitting position. The room was just as he’d left it when he dashed out into the storm, and that was—at least a couple of days ago, he thought, fingering his beard. But he felt fine. He felt wonderful until he moved his legs and his arthritis reminded him painfully that he hadn’t been taking his medicine.
He hobbled over to the medicine cabinet for his pills, and then he decided to dress. His bandage-swathed chest puzzled him. The strips of pink cloth were soft as the softest gauze, yet they resisted his tugging. He left them in place, and pulled on his clothes. He eased himself into the chair outside his door, and leaned back to enjoy the bright sunshine.
“So you are up, friend Cramer!” the voice sang. “It is well. It is proper.”
Cramer’s nurse approached along a forest path, tremendous in height and bulk, walking with a rolling gait that made Cramer want to ask if he’d been a sailor. He stood looking down at Cramer, round face expressionless, eyes darkly solemn, a small tuft of hair ridiculously isolated on the top of his head.
But his voice was warmly musical. “How are you this morning, friend Cramer?”
“Oh, I feel fine. Just a little weak, yet. Thank you. May I ask who you are?”
“Who . . . you mean you would like my name. That is proper.” He seemed to ponder the question. “Perhaps you would prefer to call me Joe?”
“Certainly, Joe,” Cramer said.
“And now you are well. Now we shall remove the bandage.”
The long fingers quickly opened Cramer’s shirt, and expertly unwound the encircling strips of cloth. The fingers paused as the bandage fell away. Joe’s round face assumed a blank expression that Cramer could not interpret.
“You have not healed as quickly as I expected,” he announced.
Cramer stared at the open incision above his heart. “You had to operate?”
“Yes, operate. You would call it that.”
“Oh! You massaged my heart to get it going again.”
“No,” Joe said. “Your heart would not go again. It was a very bad heart.”
“I don’t understand,” Cramer faltered.
“I’ll show you. But first, the bandage.”
Joe quickly bound the bandage into place, and rocked away into the woods. Twenty minutes passed, a half hour, and he came rocking back. He held a transparent, flasklike object up to the light. “You see?” his voice sang. “A very bad heart.”
Cramer stared incredulously. The flask did, unquestionably, contain a human heart.